


A Captive Audience

by GemmaNye



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Dungeons & Dragons - All Media Types, Oxventure (Web Series)
Genre: Ambiguous Relationship, Arguing, Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Captives, Dobazon, Escape, First Impressions, First Meeting, Flirting, Humour, M/M, Pirates, Platonic Relationships, Prequel, piratebard, pre-spicy rat caper
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-15 18:21:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28942878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GemmaNye/pseuds/GemmaNye
Summary: In which Dob gains a friend, loses a lute, and makes a plan.(Or, our favourite half-orc bard is captured by pirates and has to escape with the help of the world's most frustrating cellmate.)
Relationships: Corazon de Ballena | Corazon de Leon & Dob, Corazon de Ballena | Corazon de Leon/Dob
Comments: 14
Kudos: 32





	1. Setting Sail

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoy reading this as much as I did writing it, I just love these guys' dynamic of close friends/part time nemeses with my whole heart. Again I intentionally left their relationship up for interpretation but I'll definitely get around to some more explicitly shippy stuff ASAP :))
> 
> (tagged as canon-divergent because of the inevitable bits of lore and backstory that I've completely overlooked lmao)

\--

Now Dob had to admit that this didn’t number among his top ten cunning plans. Or twenty. Or hundred, for that matter. In fact he was having difficulty trying to remember a plan which had screwed up more royally and comprehensively that this one. As far as he was concerned, there was messing up a plan and then there was  _ messing up a plan _ \- the latter of which saw Dob being shoved to the floor by a pair of angry men who’d taken the liberty of sticking a bag over his head. 

His hands were bound, of course, with a rope which chafed and burned at his wrists. This precaution to him seemed a little excessive however, since Dob’s martial skills were limited almost solely to slapping, which would be about as much use as a chocolate teapot in his current predicament. What he really needed right now was his lute, but gods only know what they’d have done with it. With a sinking feeling the word ‘kindling’ reared its head into Dob’s subconscious before scuttling away.

Still, at least there remained some small comfort in the fact that his situation couldn’t get any worse.

Then someone took the cloth bag off his head, and he realised quite how wrong he was.

Blinded by the sunlight, Dob blinked slowly and strained to make out his surroundings. The air was fresh, pleasant, clean, although he supposed that the smell of cow shit would seem fresh, pleasant and clean in comparison to that god awful bag. There was something else carried on the breeze, the unmistakable tang of sea air, of sweat and salt and brine and really too much fish to be considered anything less than mildly nauseating. 

Dob could tell he was surrounded by several tall figures, most of them human, a few halflings and dwarves and things scattered among them. This wasn’t the first time he’d run into trouble with merchants, they were a broadly well meaning folk and most of the time he was able to escape with most of his bits intact, but something told him that escape wasn’t going to be quite as easy as he thought. Brow furrowed against the bright sun, the figures around him slowly gained more and more clarity, until he noticed something that made him want to put the bag back over his head. 

These weren’t merchants.

Or at least if they were, they were the first merchants Dob had ever seen who wore eyepatches, tattoos and cutlasses. The sinking feeling he had landed with a  _ clunk  _ on the very bottom of the ocean.

“This’un looks strong, don’t he,”

A young halfling man stood right above him, prodding at his torso with the toe of his boot. Dob hissed a breath as his bruised ribs protested and he flinched backwards, only to notice the two burly figures looming behind him. Gods, there was a lot of them.

“A bard you said he was?”

“Aye,” says someone else, his voice high-pitched and nasally, “found 'im skulking around in the hold.”

“Anything valuable on ‘im?”

“No, not really - no coin I mean. All he had was a lute and a piece of parchment with ‘lake’ written on it.”

Dob gasped, suddenly compelled to action. “Give that back!”

He made an attempt to get to his feet which was as valiant as it was horribly misjudged. One of the burly men behind him laughed a cruel, hacking laugh and shoved him back down embarrassingly easily. Dob wheezed against the deck, his breaths deep and pained. He closed his eyes and grit his teeth together, every part of him focused on pushing through and not passing out from pain or panic or both.

“Who’s this?” A voice, calm and thunderous sounded from across the deck, “Got a prisoner already have we?” 

Silence fell. The kind of silence which makes you realise how much noise had been present before. The pirates all stopped their chattering, which was nice since it mostly consisted of different ways to torture their shiny new captive. Silence apart from the steady sound of footsteps, slow, gloating and leisurely. The sound got louder and louder, every  _ thunk  _ of a footfall followed by a strange  _ clunk  _ of wood against wood. 

“Uh- yes Captain,” says the halfling man, “me and Higgs was inspecting the cargo and we found this one 'iding down there.”

The Captain grunts as he kneels down, inspecting the half-orc sprawled on his deck. Dob blinks. He can make out the man’s hat, the man’s beard, the man’s leg fashioned from wood. His face, an amalgamation of scars and wrinkles and tattoos, was framed by black hair, matted and streaked with grey. Dob could tell he was strong and broad, very broad, he seemed to block out the sun and cast Dob into shadow. Whether it was just his build or else the imposing air which oozed out of him, he gave the sense of being so very massive. Dob felt himself squirm at the proximity of him. His breath reeked like an abattoir.

  
  


“Well well well, what are we going to do with you?”

He grins, exposing a mouthful of blackened teeth, some of them gold, some of them missing, all of them belonging in some kind of paleontology exhibit. Dob could smell his beard from where he lay, decades of alcohol, tobacco and tar fumes all marrying together to make a stench as rancid as it was highly flammable.

“Kneel.”

“What?” Dob breathed.

“I told you to get on your knees.” The Captain repeats, and his voice didn't need to be loud to convey all of the threat of a man yelling.

Suddenly the two men behind Dob took him by the arms and dragged him up to his knees, their grip firm and biting into his skin.

“Now I’m going to give you a choice, little rat. Are you listening closely?”

Dob nodded vigorously, he couldn’t bring himself to do anything but stare at the floor. His brain usually whirred with a million different plans of action, routes to escape, the likelihood of different things going wrong, storing away all of his different contingencies. But now his mind was occupied entirely with the same deep, bodily panic that filled the rest of him - he couldn’t escape even if he tried, someone will have shot him before he’d even moved a muscle.

“Good, now because I’m feeling generous I’m going to let you live. That is as long as you choose to join my crew and work for me for the rest of your days.”

Dob gulped.

“Or I could just kill you now where you stand.” He added gloatingly, “What’s it to be?”

Dob’s brain stuttered as he tried desperately to think of a third option, any chink in this horrid man’s armour he could exploit to escape. It wouldn’t be too hard to grab one of the pistols right out of his holster, it was only a foot away from his face, only then Dob would find himself surrounded by two dozen enemies on every front, wielding a weapon he’d never used before that held maybe six shots at most. He was no statistician but he reckoned that the day that plan worked would be the same as when a snowball formed in hell. 

When he didn’t immediately answer the Captain lunged forward, grabbing a fistful of Dob’s hair. He used this to turn his head so they were finally making eye contact, blue eyes meeting with black. Dob bit hard down on his lip, suppressing a whimper.

“And there are so many ways we could do it, you know. Shoot you, stab you, beat you, drown you,” he spits, “keelhauling is fun, ever heard of that?”

Breathing quickly through his nose and blinking back tears, Dob managed to minutely shake his head.

“It’s where we tie you up and drag you across the underside of the ship, let the barnacles do all the dirty work. And when you pop back up on the other side, well you’re hardly even fit for shark food.”

Dob actually did whimper then, fear and imaginary sharp teeth gripping at him. So this was how he died - captured and killed by pirates, barnacles permitting.

Well, ‘captured’ was a strong word, given that Dob was entirely to blame for his current predicament. He’d call it a learning experience were he at all confident he’d live long enough to actually benefit from it. 

“Captain! Captain!” Someone yells from far away, and the sound of a commotion started getting louder and louder.

The Captain let go of Dob’s hair with a shove and he collapsed down onto his haunches, gasping for air.

“Can’t you see I’m busy? What is it?”

Two pirates approached the group, laboriously dragging along a third figure who was putting up an admirably good fight. He kept wriggling and writhing, grabbing at the hands on his coat and digging his feet into the deck. Dob didn’t believe he was failing to escape, more succeeding at making his captors’ job as difficult as humanly possible.

“Found- found another one,” one of them says, her brow furrowed in concentration, “hiding in the cargo bay.”

The Captain gives a look between Dob and the other prisoner, eyebrows raised,, “A friend of yours, I presume?

The prisoner was thrown down beside Dob with a little more force than necessary, his lip split and his knuckles cracked and bloodied. Surprisingly calm given the circumstances, he gave Dob a look as if to say “first time, huh?”.

“I’ve never seen this man in my life.” Says Dob, and for once he could say he was actually telling the truth.

Apart from bearing a striking resemblance to every back-alley scoundrel Dob had ever seen, the man’s face didn’t ring a bell. He was clearly human, with dark hair tied at the nape of his neck and a beard which was little more than stubble, the sort of bloke you’d expect to see in a perpetual state of 3 grogs deep in some tavern somewhere trying to chat up the barmaid.

“Of course you haven’t,” the Captain scoffs, “what was the plan then - wait until nightfall and murder us all in our beds?”

The prisoner groaned and rolled his eyes, “It’s always the same bloody thing with you lot isn’t it - murder murder murder.” He nods at Dob, “I’ve never seen this one before and I really don’t understand why you think I’d spend that much effort trying to kill a motley bunch of tea smugglers, it’s really a waste of resources if you think about it.”

Dob bit back a smirk despite himself, which didn’t last for long given that the Captain proceeded to smack the prisoner square across the jaw. He very much deserved it, but the connection of knuckle and skin made a sharp cracking sound and Dob couldn’t help but wince. 

“What are you doing on my ship?” The Captain growls.

“Look, I don’t want any trouble,” says Dob quickly, before he could pull back to deliver a second strike, “I’m just a bard, I’m not here to kill anybody.”

“Then why are you here?”

“I’m uh- heading east, I’m trying to find my sister.” 

He wasn’t sure why he was telling the truth to these people, he could count on one hand the amount of people who knew more about him than just his name and occupation. Maybe it was a survival instinct, or some kind of double bluff, or maybe he was just far too exhausted to come up with anything else. With every breath a stab of pain landed deep in his ribs, he didn’t feel in any shape to swindle these people, he just wanted to get to the nearest town and find a tavern to stay in, and preferably stay alive long enough to do so.

The halfling man appraised him with something strange in his expression, his eyes a little less deep and black and foreboding. Tentatively he clears his throat and says whisper-quiet, “He doesn’t  _ look  _ like a murderer, Captain.”

“Aye, a more landlubbing pansy I don’t think I’ve ever seen.” 

Dob didn’t know quite what to feel about that, but if it meant that he wasn't about to get murdered by pirates then he could settle on bruised indifference.

As a hum of affirmation spread around the group, all eyes then turned to the other prisoner, who was visibly beginning to sweat. If Dob was told to draw a picture of the kind of cunning, slippery little weasel who’d sneak onto a ship to assassinate the whole crew, he reckoned the man kneeling next to him would be mathematically indistinguishable.

“Hey, let’s not get bogged down in appearances,” The man rushes, eyes darting between different members of the crew, “I’m sure this green fellow has committed atrocities you wouldn’t  _ believe _ .”

The Captain squinted at him with a discerning eye which held a faint shine of recognition, “Have I seen you before?”

The man’s expression changed then, from bravado-tinted fright to a mask of pure horror.

“What? No. Uh-huh, definitely not.”

A dark look came over the Captain’s face, “It’s just I could swear I saw a lily-livered, yellow-bellied, bird-brained, pig-faced, cowardly streak of piss that looked just like you a couple years back.” 

The prisoner cleared his throat, determinedly looking at the floor, “Oh yes? Just one of those faces, I suppose.” 

“Yeah it happened to be the exact same lily-livered, yellow-bellied, bird-brained, pig-faced, cowardly streak of piss that took my leg.” he growls, “Now you wouldn’t happen to know what happened to that man would you?”

“I uh- no. No idea.” The prisoner replies, his voice taking on the weak, high-pitched quality of a man lying through his teeth.

“I suppose it’s lucky then that there’s an easy way to make sure that you aren’t that scumbag, isn’t it.” the Captain continues, “because I’m sure that if I ever  _ did  _ see that man again, they’d have to make a new part of hell for him that’s big enough to hold all of the bits.” 

If the prisoner wasn’t already white as a sheet, well he certainly was now. His eyes met Dob’s for a fleeting moment, holding nothing but panic, fear, and a roiling, writhing dread.

“Yeah that is pretty lucky.”

“You see when I was fighting that man, I noticed something - a keen eye for details, I’ve got - and I remember him having a tattoo like none I’d ever seen before - a whale on his wrist, round about here.”

The Captain gestured to the inside of his right wrist, trailing a line up the better half of his forearm.

“Now I remember thinking to myself ‘well that’s a very strange tattoo isn’t it, never seen one like that before, I’d even go so far as to say that it’s  _ unique _ ’” he spits out the last word, fixing the man with a glare that could boil water.

“You know it’s a  _ really  _ common tattoo, I’d have said that everyone and their mum’s got a uh- tattoo of a whale…. on their wrist.” 

The Captain looked across at the two pirates to his right, the pair of them built like brick privies. 

“Check him.”

Without a moment’s hesitation, they seize the man by the shoulders. They fought to keep him still as he struggled against their grip, twisting and turning in their arms, always making sure that his right arm was far out of their reach. It was clear he’d never win in a show of brute force against the two pirates, but he had an impressive nimbleness to him that was making their job nigh impossible. Again, Dob didn’t think he was earnestly trying to escape, more that he was playing his own little game of irritation..

Before long the Captain huffed and snatched the man’s arm himself. The man was good, very good, but not good enough to fend off three determined (now very annoyed) pirates. Dob could see his wrist straining hard against the Captain’s beefy grip.

“No, no, no, you don’t want to do that-”

He wrenched the man’s coat sleeve back, and Dob already knew what was on it that made a hushed murmur spread through the assembled crew. Sure enough, emblazoned in a stark contrast to his pale skin, a whale on the man’s wrist, plain as day. He gave a little squeak. The Captain, after half a moment of silence, could only stare at the tattoo, expression numb and terrifying unreadable.

Then, in a whirlwind of coats, steel and hair, a blade was drawn and pressed hard against the prisoner’s neck. A bead of blood formed and slowly ran down his clavicle, red against white. Eyes wide, he looked like some kind of cornered animal, a deer meeting the gaze of a huntsman.

“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t cut you down right now.” The Captain growls, and his eyes are black and brimming with hatred.

“Stop!” 

Dob wasn’t a fighter, he wasn’t particularly impressive or strong, even by half-orc standards - he wasn’t very wise, or smart, or powerful, and his monetary habits were quite frankly appalling. He was however, deep down, for better or for worse, a good person. 

The Captain turned to him, looming overhead with an air of concentrated rage and a look on his face that made Dob gulp and shrink in on himself. Still, Dob didn’t regret a thing - at least if that lunatic was focused on him then he wasn’t focusing on anything else, namely slitting the other prisoner’s throat. Then Dob was hit hard in the face and he made a swift amendment to that whole  _ no regrets  _ thing.

With a sickening crack, he felt a balled fist make contact with his cheekbone, pain exploding out from that one central, searing focal point. He fell back down onto the deck, eyes watering and a wave of nausea clinging to him, blocking out every feeling, sound and sight other than that deep, rolling pain. He gasped out a few breaths, the shock of it just started to fade.

Through the haze of pain and a great deal of panic, he hears someone yell, “Hey, he’s just a bard!”

Then somebody drags him to his feet and he staggers a little, his head still swimming.

“Get these two out of my sight,” snarled the Captain, storming off down the deck, “I need time to think of what I’m gonna do to them.”

\--


	2. Escapology

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys enjoy this chapter!
> 
> PS: Brownie points for spotting any of my painfully unsubtle oxventure references (including a Team Stealth reunion, ofc ofc)

The next few minutes were a blur, being half-led half-dragged along passage after passage, down staircase after staircase, the ship getting darker and damper and hotter with every corner they passed. Someone had stuck that horrid bag back over Dob’s head, and judging by the faint retching sounds coming from behind him, had done likewise with the other prisoner. 

Dob, after holding off until his head began to swim, made the mistake of breathing in. Immediately he was assaulted by a wave of _eau de pirate ship_ , which was about as pleasant as it sounded, and it sounded absolutely awful. Fighting off a retch, he manages to splutter, “Gods, these bags smell like cat sick.”

“They’re gonna smell like human sick in a minute.” The other prisoner says warily.

There’s the sound of an impact then a muffled  _ “ow!” _

One of the pirates growls “Shut up, rat.”, then kicks open something large and metallic. 

The hands binding Dob’s arms suddenly released him, then shoved him to the floor, a quiet  _ thunk  _ suggesting that the other prisoner had been deposited just as unceremoniously right next to him. A door slams shut and clicks with an ominous finality that rings through Dob’s bones. 

“We’ll be back soon enough, don’t get too comfortable.” A voice cackles dryly.

Another one chips in, a smile clear in her voice, “I’m sure the Captain will come up with something very special for the pair of you.”

Somebody laughs at that, the sound disappearing down the passage along with several sets of footsteps. Hoarse and shrieking, it echoes through the bowels of the ship like some kind of spirit, taunting and gloating from every angle.

With some difficulty, Dob managed to shake the bag off his head, then took in the ship around him. A mounting dread bloomed in his stomach. He was in some sort of cell, small, cramped, the kind of affair with thick, criss-crossed bars that he imagined had been used to carry some kind of animal an age and a half ago. This fact was also painfully evident judging by the smell alone. 

On the door was fastened a padlock, a sturdy looking thing. Now Dob had broken his way out of more jail cells than he cared to mention, but he doubted even a sledgehammer could make a dent in that thing. Then again this wasn’t anything like the kind of country bumpkin drunk tank he usually found himself in, the kind made of plaster and hay that he could break out of just by walking hard enough at one of the walls - this was made by pirates, and for what they lacked it general cleanliness they more than made up for on the torture and masochism front.

Drips of water fell periodically from the ceiling, which Dob reckoned was less than good luck given that he was on a boat. Oddly enough, this still wasn’t the worst prison cell he’d ever been kept in, even if it was dark, dingy and smelled like a pigsty on a pirate ship (which was almost exactly the same smell as a pigsty on dry land but marginally even worse)

“Did you really cut that man’s leg off?” Says Dob the moment he gets to his feet, wriggling out of the ropes binding his wrists..

Doing similarly, the man mulls it over for a second.

“Not exactly.” he says thoughtfully.

“Not exactly? It seems like a pretty black and white question to me.”

“It’s a long story.”

“I’ve got time.” Say Dob, “Well, I’ve not, but it sounds exciting and I wanna hear it.”

“Some years ago, me and him were fighting together on this very ship,” The man starts, apparently needing no more persuasion to launch right into his story, a theatrically far-off look in his eyes, “that Captain we talked to had taken some hostages from a nearby town and my crew was trying to rescue them. It was all going well, we had gotten most of the hostages to safety, but then he took one of them, a young girl it was, and stuck a blade to her throat. He told me to back off and leave the rest of the hostages on the ship, so I’m afraid I saw no other option but to shoot him in the leg and escape. You know how injuries are at sea, they probably amputated the rest of it before any infection could take hold.”

The man sighed dramatically, that stupid look still on his face.

“Not a word of that is true, is it.” Dob remarks dryly.

“Nope.” He says, dropping his demeanour and taking a seat on the far side of the cell with his legs crossed, “Well not all of it, I did actually shoot him in the leg.”

“How?”

The man gives Dob a withering look, “I surrendered immediately, threw my pistol away, then it hit a railing and went off by accident.”

Dob grinned and sat across from the man. He wasn’t sure what fascinated him about this stranger, it wasn’t everyday out here that you came across someone who hadn’t lost their fire to a world which ached to stamp it out, maybe he reminded Dob of himself in that sense. Another soul with a spark in his eyes and a million stories to tell.

“What’s your name, by the way?” The man asks, appraising him slowly, “I know we’re about to die a very slow and painful death, but I’d at least like to know who I’m sharing it with.”

“Dob.”

“Got a surname?”

“Nope,” he says, “just Dob. You?”

The man held out his hand, it was rough, calloused, with rings on every finger.

“Corazón de Ballena”

They shook hands across the cramped cell, a gesture for show more than anything else. If everything went according to plan, they should be dead before lunchtime. Still, they’d made it this far, there was no point in abandoning formalities now.

“That’s quite a name, you might have to spell it out for me”

“Thanks.”

“Is that made up as well?”

“No, it isn’t actually,” Corazon says, brows furrowing, “that’s my real name.”

“Sorry, it just seems a bit….. ostentatious.”

Corazon rolled his eyes, “Ostentatious isn’t a bad thing.”

Dob took him up and down, from the tattoos swirling up the pale column of his chest, to the silver embroidery on his coat, to the rings, chains and bangles that seemed to hang off every part of him that they’d fit. He raised a brow.

“You don’t say.”

Corazon gives him a look.

“You’re a pirate, right? What are you doing sneaking around smugglers’ ships?” Dob paused, then added in a conspiratorial voice, “You’ve not come back for his other leg have you?”

“No I haven’t,” Corazon says exasperatedly, but there’s a hint of a smile to it.

“Shame, that would have been pretty poetic.”

“And  _ pirate  _ is a strong word to be throwing around the place like that - to you, Dob, I’m an aquatic businessman.”

It was truly amazing the speed at which this man could make Dob alternate between awe and exasperation.

“Alright then, how does a legitimate aquatic businessman like yourself end up, well… in a prison cell that smells like fish?”

“Why do you want to know?”

Dob shrugs, “I’m interested. Also I can’t stand depressing silences even when I’m not about to get murdered.”

“Okay well,” Corazon visibly deflates a little, “I’m heading east and I needed to hitch a ride.”

“Can’t you just sail your own ship if you want to go east? Sounds a little safer.”

Corazon rubs a hand against his forehead, “That’s the problem - I have got a ship, I’ve just gone and….  _ misplaced  _ it.”

“Isn’t it rather hard to misplace a ship?”

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you.”

Dob chooses his next words carefully, “When you say misplaced, do you uh- actually mean  _ stolen _ ?”

“No, no, I don’t, actually.” He says a little too quickly, pointing a finger at Dob, “Nobody has  _ stolen  _ my ship.”

From what little Dob had seen of Corazon, he felt it safe to assume that 90% of everything he said was bullshit. And that it was probably a good idea to not leave loose change lying around with him in the room.

“Then what happened to it?”

“I was docked at Amran to unload some cargo and a uh- disgruntled member of my crew decided it’d be a good idea to sail off with it.”

Dob really, really tried not to smirk at the look of petulant bitterness on the pirate’s face, tried and failed, but it was a valiant effort.

“Why east then?”

“Amran is an inlet town, east is the only way they could have gone.” he says darkly, “I’m headed to Casterfalls, that’s probably where the bugger’s docked right now.”

Dob gasps and grins, “I’m going to Casterfalls too!”

“Small world.” says Corazon, a small smile on his face, “Why are you going?”

“Me? Oh I’m looking for someone. Also it couldn’t hurt to make some money so I can afford an actual ferry instead of, you know,” he clears his throat, “this.”

“Please don’t tell me you’re gonna rob a bank or something.”

“No, no, I’ll just play some music in a few taverns, leave the first-degree armed robbery to rum sorts like yourself.”

Corazon scoffs and gives a look as if to say, “Charmed.” 

“Shouldn’t be too hard to earn enough to live off for a couple days as long as the taverns are busy, and if that fails then the armed robbery is plan B.”

“I don’t see any instrument on you, what do you play?” Corazon waits, and then adds in a troubled voice, “Please don’t tell me it’s a cappella.”

Dob smiles in spite of himself, “No, I play the lute.” 

“Brilliant, because I’m afraid I might have had to kill you myself and do those pirates out of a job.”

“I wouldn’t look too relieved, those pirates nicked my lute and by now they’re probably using it to play ping pong.” 

To be fair, the lute hadn’t exactly been brand new when Dob had got it, which was his diplomatic way of saying he’d nicked it off a passing troubadour. 

He hadn’t felt too guilty at the time and even less so now, because frankly the troubadour in question had been so horrific that to not steal it was technically an affront to music, bards and every poor bastard unlucky enough to have found themselves within earshot. 

Corazon laughs, “Look at the pair of us - a pirate without a ship and a bard without a lute.”

“Hey, as long as I can hum and you can float I really don’t see what the problem is.” Dob smirks.

Corazon pats his pockets down, “You haven’t got any booze on you by any chance?” He asks, “I’m telling you, there’s nothing more depressing than getting keelhauled sober.”

“Nope, I uh- tend to pack pretty light.”

“Fair enough, I don’t know what good it would do anyways - those sadistic maniacs will probably kill us before it starts to hit. I swear the next one of those pig-faced morons I see, I’ll rip his eyes out.”

The halfling man from before cleared his throat, appearing at the door of the cell and glaring right at Corazon.

“Did you say something?”

Corazon visibly paled. He stared determinedly at a point above Dob’s right shoulder, “Oh I uh- no, nothing at all, why would you possibly think I said something?.”

Dob rolled his eyes.

“That’s what I thought.” The halfing man spits, “Should only be another few minutes before the Captain comes for you, so make peace wi’ your gods and uh- please try not to piss yer’selves, coz it’s me what’s got to clean it up.” 

He stalks off away from the cell, chuckling quietly to himself. It was then that Dob finally let himself panic, to appreciate what horrific manner of thing he was about to be subjected to.

“Corazon, I don’t want to die here.” He says, in a voice which let terror creep through the cracks of any bravado he clung onto..

His mind was racing again, this time spurred on by that innate sense of self-preservation in the eye of a cornered animal. Just like that his thoughts became legible, the chicken scratch of panic resolving itself into blueprints in his head, ideas and plans and contingencies all lining themselves neatly in front of his fingers.

“There’s no shame in dying like this, you know,” Corazon sounded surprisingly unfazed by the whole situation, “the amount of times I’ve cheated death, it’s only fair it catches up to me eventually.”

Dob gets to his feet, “Are you going to help me escape or have you not quite finished waxing poetic yet.” He comments dryly.

Corazon clears his throat, “Yep, I think I’m done - any bright ideas?”

“Yeah I-” Dob swallows, “Yeah I think so.”

“Care to share with the class?”

“Okay, how’s about this:” Dob nods his head thoughtfully, “You hide somewhere in the cell and I can shout out and pretend to have a medical emergency or something” he gestures about with his hands, starting to get more and more animated, “then when one of the pirates comes to investigate, you jump him and steal his keys. Because you blend in around this lot, you can pretend to be one of them and say that you’re leading me off to walk the plank or whatever it is pirates do, but instead we hijack a raft and row back to shore, it can’t be that far away.” By the time Dob was finished, he was out of breath and his eyes were wide and excited. Corazon himself looked impressed, impressed and a little scared, but impressed nevertheless. He seemed to consider this for a second.

“Or alternatively.” Corazon says, and he strides across the room to the cell door, dropping to his knees and inspecting the lock with a keen eye. 

Dob, about to ask him what the hell he was doing, felt his blood pressure rise by a dangerous degree when he saw Corazon take something out of his pocket that looked suspiciously like a hairpin. Sure enough, he began to fiddle with the lock with long, dextrous fingers and an ease that made Dob think this was far from his first time doing this.

“I’m sorry,” Dob splutters, outraged, “have you been able to pick the lock this entire time?”

“Yeah, why?” 

Corazon was infuriatingly nonchalant as he worked away at the lock. His tongue stuck out of the edge of his mouth a little, concentrating on twisting the hairpin with the air of a painter appraising his canvas, brush in hand. It clicked open a second or so later, Corazon getting back to his feet with a look on his face that was suddenly incredibly punchable. 

“Nothing,” Dob says, “just wondering if it’d be quicker to let the pirates kill you or do it myself.”

“Now that’s funny, because I think what you should be saying is “ _ thank you, Corazon” _ ” he opens the door and gestures theatrically for Dob to go ahead.

Now as glad as Dob was to be making his escape, a small part of his brain was longing with increasing insistence to see somebody, namely himself, slap the self-satisfied grin right off the pirate’s face. Not trusting his mouth, he could just about manage a grimace in Corazon’s general direction as he walked out of the cell.

“Now what?” Mutters Corazon, “You’re the one with the good ideas, what should we do next?”

“Oh, can I actually come up with an idea?” Dob starts facetiously, “Or are you planning on announcing that you’ve had a teleportation spell or something tucked away this entire time and that this whole thing has been completely pointless.”

Shaking his head, Corazon shut the cell door behind him with a muffled  _ clunk _ . 

“Be quiet, I’m not getting caught and killed just because you’ve found something to whinge about.” He hisses, setting off down the corridor with slow, methodical footsteps.

Calling it a corridor was pretty generous, Dob mused, he was no stranger to sneaking around the bowels of ships, but he doubted he’d ever seen one quite this horrific. Even coming here the first time with a bag over his head, it had been nothing less than an attack to the senses - the stench of grime and fetid water, an inch or so sloshing around underfoot and releasing a cloud of pungent decay. Crates, barrels and bags were stacked high on all sides, only adding to the labyrinthine quality of the passage, dimly lit by a handful of gas lamps and candles. The corners of the passage were thrown into deep shadow from where they could hear a faint scurrying, squeaking sound that neither of them were too keen on investigating.

Dob followed along faithfully, surprisingly agile despite his size. There weren't many things that he would trust his new companion to do, finding his own arse in a bathtub with two hands being among them, but navigating a pirate ship had to be a very notable exception. 

Corazon picked his way down the corridor with the practised strides of a man accustomed to the nauseating to and fro of a ship, his stance crouched and tense like some kind of cat prowling in the undergrowth. Dob tried his very best to copy, but there was no doubting that he wasn’t exactly an experienced sailor - or even a vaguely competent one, for that matter. He swayed his weight to try and keep his balance, chose each footstep carefully and deliberately to make no noise against the damp deck, even muffled his breathing so he couldn’t be heard, but overall he knew he bore about as much resemblance to a cat as a labrador with pointy ears stuck on.

“Shush.” Corazon whispers after a couple moments, and holds a finger up as they both freeze mid-stride.

Straining his ears, Dob made out the sound of distant voices, too far away to be intelligible, but getting steadily louder and louder. All he could tell was that they belonged to men, men who didn’t sound like they’d be at all happy to see them. 

Corazon shot him a panicked look, mouthing something that looked a lot less like instructions and more like a series of obscenities strung together. 

Desperately darting his eyes about the passageway, Dob scrambled for a plan. He grabbed Corazon by the arms and pulled him close before ducking behind a stack of crates. His confused yelp was muffled by Dob’s hand over his mouth, but he caught on before long, needing no more brute force tactics to stay silent and easily melt into the shadows.

The voices grew closer, dangerously closer, now Dob could tell them apart. 

“.... what, so …. different things?”

“Aye, Captain said …. should fit the crime.”

“How’s he working that one out?”

“Well he said he’s havin’ fun wi’ the human one, gonna play with his food before he kills it or something like that.”

“And the bard?”

“Oh he’ll probably just shoot him and get it over with - make the human watch, mind, says the two of ‘em seem awfully fond of eachother.”

Now Dob didn’t know how to feel about that.

He was also forcibly reminded of the fact that he was still clutching onto Corazon, holding him flush against his chest as they crouched together behind the crates. Corazon hadn’t shucked him off yet, and probably had enough jingly things on his person that doing so now would immediately blow their cover. Dob exhaled deeply, before realising quite how terrible of an idea it was and clamping a hand against his mouth.

“Nasty way to go, isn’t it.”

“Shouldn’t ha’ shot the Captain then, should ‘e? Just askin’ for trouble, that.”

The two figures walked at a leisurely pace towards the cell, nearing Dob and Corazon’s hiding place with every step. They were sequestered in shadow, complete darkness, which was useful as far as stealth was concerned, but less so when it came to exchanging significant looks, something that they were both currently trying and failing to do.

“Gonna keelhaul that pirate then, you reckon?”

“Maybe, probably not though - ‘tsan awful lot o’ faffing about with ropes for the same effect that you could get wi’, say, ten minutes and a pencil sharpener.”

Funnily enough, Dob didn’t need to see a significant look to know exactly what was going through Corazon’s mind at that moment.

The other man let out a dry, coughing laugh, “I’ve seen the Captain do worse, I’ll give you that.”

“Remember that city watchman what came calling a couple weeks back?”

“Oh yeah that wasn’t half messy was it, some proper artistry, that.”

“Maybe to you - I’m still breaking my back trying to scrub bits of ‘im out the deck.”

The man paused, “These two are pretty quiet aren’t they?”

“Aye, was just thinkin’ that. Usually you can’t hear yourself think for people beggin’ for mercy down ‘ere.”

The men were only a few feet away from the cell now, their pace slowed to a tentative trickle. Only seconds stood between now and being discovered, the alarm being raised, and then they wouldn’t only be up shit creek without a paddle, but without a compass, buoy or canoe.

“ _ Dob _ ,” 

Corazon’s voice sounds in his ear, impossibly close and impossibly quiet.

“ _ When I move, I’ll take the one on the right, you take the one on the left _ .” he breathes, “ _ Okay _ ?”

“ _ Okay _ .”

There’s a pause, and Dob doesn’t dare to breathe. He can feel Corazon’s body quiver with anticipation against his. Then an awful lot of things happen at once.

In a blur of black clothes and cheap cologne, Corazon untangled himself from Dob’s grip and launched himself cat-like over the pile of crates. Perhaps asking Corazon what the plan was might have been a good idea, because for a moment all Dob could do was watch in a stupor of shock and bashful admiration. Corazon stalked up behind one of the pirates, crouched as if ready to pounce, and then it occurred to Dob that spectating was probably the least helpful thing he could be doing right now.

The crates didn’t topple over when he vaulted over them, which was certainly a better outcome than he’d been expecting, but being something of a hulking great monstrosity of a half-orc, his whisper-quiet landing left some things to be desired. To be fair, even in the tiny off-chance they didn’t notice Dob crashing onto the deck, being tackled to the ground by a rogue might just have made the penny drop.

Approaching at a sprint, Dob made quick work of the other pirate, hitting him across the back of the head with a single measured blow - hard enough to knock him out but not hard enough to kill him. Strangely enough, the workplace hazards of being a travelling musician were such that he’d become oddly adept at this manoeuvre over the years. The man hit the deck like a sack of spuds, unmoving and unconscious. Dob deflated a little, his heart rate just starting to return to a level that wasn’t physiologically concerning.

Corazon on the other hand was having a much harder time of it. He’d managed to get the other man into a headlock, but his target was kicking and writhing furiously against his grip, grabbing desperately at Corazon’s forearm. The poor man’s face was colouring a purplish maroon, his breaths uneven and gasping as he tried to yell out for help. Corazon’s brow furrowed in concentration, and with no small effort he managed to get him to stop fighting before dropping him unconscious to the floor. 

He met Dob’s gaze, a sheen of sweat visible on his forehead in the dim lamplight.

“You made hard work of that, didn’t you.”

“It’s called finesse.” He retorts, out of breath.

Dob pauses, “No, I think it’s called choking someone out very slowly.”

“At least I didn’t try and brute force it like some kind of barbarian.”

“Who am I to argue with someone so refined?” Says Dob, and he massaged his knuckles which had begun to ache terribly.

Refusing to dignify that with a response, Corazon hurried to the end of the corridor, then checked left and right for any more unwelcome visitors.

“We should get out of here.” He hisses.

“How? It was hard enough dealing with these two and there’s probably a million more up on deck.” And if it took Corazon that much time and stress to take just one of them down, they’d be here for hours, Dob doesn’t tack on.

Corazon gestures to follow along behind him, and they quietly hurry along a few more passages, the bowels of the ship understandably devoid of anyone who could possibly avoid it, “We’re not too far from the coast,” he whispers, “I reckon we could swim it.”

“You what?”

“Once we get to the top deck, it’s just a matter of jumping into the water and escaping.” He continues with concerning self-assurance.

Bewildered, Dob takes him by the arm to get him to stop moving then leans in close, “You’re joking, right?” he whispers, brows furrowed.

“You said yourself, we’re not that far away from the shore.”

Dob’s ears might have been deceiving him, but it sounded an awful lot like Corazon was suggesting that the plan was to jump into the sea and hope for the best. Now he wasn’t  _ afraid  _ of the sea, per se, but he didn’t see why any level-minded, reasonable person would spend any more time around it than was absolutely necessary.

He did feel the need to remind himself however, that Corazon was many things, but level-minded and reasonable weren’t the first ones that came to mind..

Dob’s knowledge of the sea was almost entirely based upon stories he’d heard whispered by sailors in taverns, talking about all sorts of bitey, spiky, murder-y thing lurking in the deep.  _ The deep _ being exactly where they belonged, or rather as far away from Dob as humanly possible. Still, it was a choice between certain death at the hands of a bunch of tattooed lunatics, or highly likely death from whatever smelly tentacled creature happened to be lurking in the immediate vicinity. 

“That’s a terrible idea.” he manages.

“What’s wrong, scared of sharks?” Corazon says, and there’s an amused challenge in his voice.

Unsure of quite how to respond to that, Dob splutters, “Corazon are you trying to say it’s unreasonable to be scared of sharks? Because it’s a perfectly-”

“-Look, it’s either this plan or let Captain Halitosis up there skin you and make himself a new beanbag.”

When Dob can’t bring himself to form a coherent answer, one that quite encapsulates the breadth of his terror, frustration and disbelief at this horrific mockery of a plan, Corazon raises a hand and pats him twice on the cheek.

“It’ll be fine, just follow my lead.”

If there were any words that could possibly fill Dob with any less confidence, he thought Corazon hit the nail on the head quite neatly with those ones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not gonna lie, in this chapter I had so much fun playing about with Dob and Corazon introducing all of their little quirks to each other for the very first time and seeing how the other would react. Like they've both got such strong personalities and the only way I can describe most of their interactions is like water being added to a grease fire  
> (In a good way though, naturally)
> 
> Anyways please do leave a kudos/comment if you enjoyed :))


	3. New Beginnings

“We’re going to get shot, you realise that?” 

Dob was pressed hard against the wall, keeping to the shadows as best he could. It was probably a little excessive given the circumstances, but he had to admit that he was starting to appreciate the theatricality of it all. 

He honestly couldn’t remember a time when he’d felt so bright, so alive, so exhilarated. His heart throbbed in his ears from a mix of adrenaline, terror, and the physical exertion of actually getting himself up there. Dob still wasn’t entirely sure that the past ten minutes hadn’t been some kind of stress-induced hallucination, sneaking through passageways, knocking out pirates, hiding in implausible places, all the while snaking slowly upwards, closer and closer to the light of day, freedom, and hopefully some fresh air.

It was through this laborious process he’d found out that Corazon, to the surprise of absolutely nobody, was a massive fan of the unnecessary and melodramatic combat roll. Now Dob wasn’t too precious about the way he wanted to die, but he certainly didn’t want it to be on account of his companion engaging in noisy and pointless acrobatics because he thought it looked cool.

“We definitely will get shot if you keep talking so loudly.” Corazon retorts under his breath. 

At least he was making some use out of himself now, perched on top of a box, scouting ahead and refusing to pretend as if this task was anything less than perfectly dignified. He’d lifted the hatch above his head infinitesimally so he could peek above deck, his eyes darting about surreptitiously. A single shaft of sunlight shone through the gap, throwing Corazon’s face into sharp relief.

“Can you see anything?” 

“Boots. Just lots and lots of boots.” He grumbles, squinting against the light.

Corazon let the hatch fall shut, plunging them back into a lamplit gloom. At least this meant that no suspicions would be raised by a pair of beady blue eyes being spotted glaring inexplicably out of the cargo hold.

“How many do you reckon?”

With a little flourish, Corazon hopped down from the box, “Boots or people?”

“People.” Dob sighs.

“I’d say maybe twenty, twenty-five of them up there.”

“That doesn’t sound like a lot.”

“I’m telling you,” Corazon starts, cracking his knuckles, “trashy tea smugglers, the lot of them, we’ve not exactly got Blackbeard on our hands. All they do is sail up and down the coast, picking off little merchant ships, kidnapping, blackmailing and murdering people, I’d be surprised if they had three pistols between the lot of them.”

It’s purely Dob’s own willingness to delude himself that made him believe a word that Corazon just said. It was probably some kind of odd self-preservatory tactic to make him stop panicking. Either that or Corazon genuinely wanted to reassure him, but the odds of that seemed slim.

“Reckon we’ll be able to make it to the edge of the ship then?” 

“Gunwale.” Corazon says a little absent-mindedly.

Dob’s brow furrows “You what?”

“Gunwale. It’s the name of that part of the ship.”

He rubs a hand over his face, “Gods’ sake, answer the question, Corazon.”

“I’ve no doubt we can make it, we’ll definitely be spotted though.” Corazon grunts, climbing up onto the box and lifting up the hatch again

Dob sighed, studying Corazon’s expression. He remained willfully unreadable, apparently not a subscriber to Dob’s philosophy of announcing everything that was going through his head at any one moment to the room at large. 

The cut on his lip had scabbed over, and a shadow of purple was starting to bloom across his jaw. Like most of the people who followed a certain lifestyle, almost every bit of him that Dob could see was decorated with a litany of scars. Pale gashes and cuts, raised slightly from the rest of his skin, ran all of the way down his chest, up his arms, across his neck. 

Dob felt himself seized by a bizarre urge to ask about them. Each one must have it’s own epic tale, fabricated or otherwise based on what mood Corazon was in - there’d be plenty of opportunity for all that when there wasn’t any immediate danger of getting maimed.

Corazon turned to face him, Dob quickly dropped his eyes to the floor.

“So it’s just a case of running like hell, then.” Dob mutters.

“Yes I suppose so…” Corazon says measuredly, “I uh- after you.” he gestures out of the hatch.

Dob vehemently shook his head, “No, I insist.” his lip curled into a smirk.

It took a surprisingly long time for someone to notice the pair of them sprint across the deck, and even longer for the first gunshot to sound, only surprising because Dob had kind of expected both things to happen suddenly and painfully the moment he stuck his head out of the hatch.

That final sprint to the water was, for want of any other word, horrific. Dob didn’t know if there was a word in Common for jumping off the side of a ship while being chased and shot at by the cast of  _ ye olde Treasure Island _ , but there was definitely one for it in orc-ish and it sounded like someone wetting their trousers. 

All at once, uproar exploded around them. People screamed and yelled, fired pistols, drew swords and seemingly lobbed whatever random miscellania they happened to have close at hand. Dob wasn’t looking closely enough to notice this of course, but when a flying shoe narrowly missed his right ear and a wooden arm whizzed past his left, he was just about able to put two and two together. Corazon however didn’t seem to fare quite as well. All Dob could hear was a series of yelps, gasps and profanities as Corazon got pelted at with what appeared to be the contents of a low-grade antiques shop. Corazon stumbled as an empty tankard struck the back of his head, then fell to his knees when a figure, stocky and brutish, took the opportunity to slam right into him. Scrambling against a pair of arms built like pillars, he fought to get to his feet, the three hundred pound deadweight of a pirate anchoring him down. 

Dob stopped in his tracks. His thoughts were blurred by a mix of panic and his own heart racing in his ears. He looked left and right, at the pirates closing in at a terrifying pace. At the glint of steel, the wisps of smoke. There were eyes all around him, shining with murder and an acute fury that burned right into him, looking at him like a shark looks at a bluefin. He was just a rabbit in the belly of the beast, locking eyes with its killer. Corazon whimpered, and for the second time there was a blade gleaming at his throat, drawing a thin stream of blood that made the knife shine crimson. The visual made Dob’s whole body stutter and pause, gripped by a fresh wave of terror and dread. He met Corazon’s eyes, and suddenly they were all that existed in the whole world - Dob and Corazon and a gaze that was fear and regret and acceptance all at once. It told Dob to turn away, to run and never stop running, to leave Corazon to the fate that he’d brought upon himself.

Dob swallowed, his mouth suddenly bone dry. He couldn’t let that happen.

Unable to think of any solution more delicate or sophisticated than the one that immediately presented itself, Dob moved before he could think. He could have told you that this was a terrible idea before he’d even moved an inch, but apparently this was a lesson the universe was intending on teaching him the hard way. A shock of pain shot through Dob’s knuckles as they collided with a forehead he could have picked out of a lineup as belonging to the kind of rough sailor type with more muscle than sense. The pirate yelped and toppled like a tree trunk, both hands dropping from Corazon’s torso as he clutched at his face. 

Dob felt like he ought to say something, something noble and heroic, the kind of thing that would make anybody in earshot violently sick. Who was he kidding, at this point he was far too exhausted to uphold any semblance of bravado, and really his hand was hurting so badly he couldn’t be sure he wouldn’t whimper the second he opened his mouth. He gave Corazon a look, as slow and meaningful as possible (which really wasn’t much of either, there were two dozen pirates running at them, after all) and that seemed to suffice.

They took off without another moment's hesitation, sprinting with a renewed energy. Dob struck into the railing with a  _ thud  _ a couple seconds later, bracing both hands onto the rough wood beneath him, ready to launch himself over. Then he peered over the edge and his stomach dropped, dropped - dropped the distance from here to the water and then some.

If there was anything that Dob prided himself on more than anything else in the world it was his ability to plan things to death, and it probably said a lot about Dob that he wasn’t even particularly good at it. This much was obvious by the fact that he now found himself at the ship’s railing with no clue what to do next. Running to the edge, fighting off the pirates, swimming to dry land, all of them detailed in his mind down to the very minutia, but there was a gap in his memory. A  _ jumping off the edge of the ship  _ sized gap, to be more specific. 

In retrospect he really ought to have considered this bit because  _ wow  _ the drop in front of him was a lot bigger than he’d been imagining. A flash of shock warmed into a deep-seated curl of fear in his gut. That drop had to be a good couple stories high..

Make no mistake, Dob had absolutely fallen out of trees bigger than this without a scratch - but there was a small yet significant difference between drunkenly decking it out of a tree branch and well, actively throwing himself off a pirate ship. He can’t have been standing there for more than a second or so, preparing himself to bite the bullet metaphorically before he was forced to do it more literally, then fate decided that would be a good time to intervene. Fate, or more specifically, Corazon.

Without losing an ounce of momentum, Corazon ran right at him, grabbed him by the chest and launched them both out into the abyss. As it was, Dob made a vague mental note to murder Corazon the next time the opportunity presented itself, however if he’d have noticed the quiet  _ thunk  _ of a dagger hit the railing where he’d just been stood, he might have been a tiny bit more grateful. Just a tiny bit, because Dob’s human decency didn’t stretch quite as far as the resentment he felt for being rugby tackled off a pirate ship.

The impact of the water took his breath away. It was cold, so cold, pressed hard against every part of him, sudden and jarring. His whole body seized with shock, it was all Dob could do to resist the instinct to gasp in a mouthful of sea water as all the air rushed from his lungs. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to think, all of his thoughts garbled and nonsensical through a haze of panic. 

_ If you ever fall through the ice,  _ a voice sounded in his head, a memory, vague and faded like old parchment,  _ do not panic - that’s the worst thing you can do. Breathe, wait for the shock to pass, then kick your legs and keep yourself afloat, okay? _

A woman’s voice, Suzette’s. She’d taken him ice fishing an age and a half ago. Naturally he’d been awful at it, but of all the things he’d remembered from that day, for once he was glad that none of them were about fish.

With a deep, gasping breath, Dob broke the surface, heaving and spluttering out gobs of seawater. It stung at his throat, stung at his skin, his body only just starting to acclimatise to the cold as he regained some of the feeling in his limbs. He spotted Corazon treading water just a few feet away, drenched to the skin with dark hair plastered to his face. He was wheezing in deep breaths of air and giving Dob a look that somehow conveyed both an intense distaste for where he found himself and the words “Let’s get the fuck out of here”.

Without another moment’s delay, they turned away from that god awful pirate ship, from the shouting crew, the Captain with what could only be accurately described as  _ death breath _ , and the bags that smelled of cat sick. 

Out of the shadow of the boat the water was a little warmer, tinted a turquoise green, shimmering slightly at the sunlight. If he squinted, Dob could see all the way down to the seafloor, peppered with sea shells and chunks of coral, fish dancing around his shadow, seaweed coiling skywards and the very notable absence of anything massive and tentacled.

He hated to admit it but maybe Corazon was right about this, the plan had worked out almost perfectly. Dob vehemently hoped that this was the first and last time he’d ever had to acknowledge that, but maybe Corazon’s plans weren’t quite as flawed as he thought.

And then a wave crashed over his head.

Like a gust of wind extinguishing a candlelight, Dob found himself enveloped all at once in a soft, warm blackness that beckoned him closer, closer. Every part of him aching and stinging, Dob let down his guard and he welcomed it.

\--

When Dob felt himself come to, it was to the sensation of water, cool and shallow, lapping at his feet. The sand beneath him was sun-warmed and coarse, adhering to the side of his face in a way that made him think he’d be finding it in his clothes for another fortnight. Still, the cawing overhead sounded more like gulls than vultures, and there didn’t seem to be a shadowy bloke with a scythe lurking in the immediate vicinity, which in Dob’s experience always boded well. He was soaked through, aching, hungry and medically in need of a beer, but he was, for all intents and purposes, alive. 

Or if he  _ was  _ dead, the afterlife was nowhere near as nice as it’d been cracked up to be.

The peace of the moment was duly shattered by someone lying a few feet away from him exploding into a very loud and obnoxious coughing fit, spluttering and retching up sea water onto the beach below him. Dob squinted his eyes against the bright sunlight beating down on him, blinking away the sand in his eyelashes. He could make out the form of Corazon bent double with his hands on his knees, sounding like he was doing his best to hack his lungs up while turning the air blue from here to Amran. 

“Gods,” he manages, the coughing starting to subside. He too was dripping wet, strands of hair hanging in front of his face and his clothes covered in a thin layer of dirt and sand. He spat onto the sand beneath him, his chest heaving.

After a minute or so he seemed to remember himself, then turned and ran to where Dob lay a few feet away, casting him into a cool shadow that wasn’t at all unpleasant.

“Dob”, he coughs, “Dob y’okay?”

Dob opened his mouth to say something, but choked on his words. Something burning hot began to fight its way up his throat, a torrent of something that scalded at his lungs. He started to cough hard, turning over onto his hands and knees as he fought to breathe against the fire clinging to his chest. Each cough was another stab in the lungs, another wave of searing pain. 

He felt a hand hit his back repeatedly, “That’s it,” Corazon says, “bring it all up, that’s okay.”

Dob had spent his first moments on dry land terrified he might die, now he was terrified that he might not die after all. He didn’t know how torturously long it went on for, seconds, minutes, hours, all he could do was push himself through, focus on the cawing on the gulls above him, on the feeling of the sand beneath his fingers, the muttered words of encouragement from beside him and the hand resting on his back, warm and stable and comforting.

“Any better?” Corazon asks once the coughs begin to let up to weak splutters and he starts sucking in deep gasps of air, no longer drowning in his own stupid lungs..

Dob collapsed back down onto the sand, his chest rising and falling rapidly. His throat felt stripped raw, as if he’d been at it with sandpaper and then a cheese grater for good measure. He didn’t know if he could speak.

“Y- yeah,” he wheezes, rubbing at his face with one hand, “better.”

“You sure?” Says Corazon, leaning over him.

“Mhm, could do with a drink.”

“Me too. A big drink. A very big drink of something very strong and very cheap.” 

Dob tried to sit up a little, making it as far as his elbows before he collapsed back down again, every part of his body screaming at him in protest.

He huffed a groan, “Gods, I feel like death.”

“You look like it.” Says Corazon, his voice derisive with a tiny measure of genuine concern peeking through. Bashfully, he offers Dob a hand and helps haul him to his feet, a task which was painful for everybody involved. 

Dob smiles weakly once he was sure he wasn’t going to pass out, “No sharks then,” 

“No sharks.” Corazon echoes, “That’s one positive we’ve got out of today at least.”

“Hey, I wasn’t mauled by sharks or murdered by pirates - that sounds like a success in my book.”

Corazon chuckles, “Not a great track record then?”

“You could say that.”

It wasn’t easy being on the road by himself. Dob could hardly remember a time when he didn’t have to fend for himself, when he wasn’t forced to solve his own messes or die trying. He’d almost forgotten what it was like to depend on another person, to put his life in their hands. 

Maybe that’s what drew him to Corazon in the first place, that sense of being lost that hung about the pair of them like a cloud, lost even when they knew exactly where they were. 

“Uh, Corazon.” He starts tentatively.

Corazon’s already started walking off, heading towards the faint outline of a town on the horizon, Dob does a little jog to catch up. 

“Yeah?”

“I was thinking,” he clears his throat, “we’re both headed to Casterfalls, right?”

“Yeah, it’s gonna be a while until I can afford to travel though,” Corazon says darkly, as if resenting a million different things at once. Needless to say that it was a tone of voice Dob would soon become well acquainted with. 

“Those pirates nicked all my coin.”

“Uh, same.” Dob says, lying through his teeth, “And since we’re both pretty much stuck here until we can make more money, I just uh- thought maybe…” he trails off.

“Thought what?”

Corazon gives him a wary look that makes his words lodge sideways in his throat.

Dob gulped and avoided eye contact like his life depended on it.

“That it’d  _ ahem  _ be more practical and cost-efficient if we, you know… stuck together for a bit.” 

Awkwardly clearing his throat, Dob rushed to add, “Just until we get to Casterfalls, obviously, then you can rejoin your crew and I can go back to looking for my sister.”

There was a pregnant pause. They walked together in an unsteady silence for another moment or so, and neither of them could bring themselves to say anything. Then Corazon stopped in his tracks and Dob felt like he might die. He gave Dob a look, the kind of look that seemed to go right through him and out the other side, the kind of look that made him wish he was back on HMS Genocide.

Corazon’s eyes lingered on him for a long while as he seemed to consider the idea, blue and discerning and curious. Eventually he spoke, and Dob felt himself physically deflate.

“I’ve got two questions.” He says carefully, “Actually no, three,” 

“Shoot.” Dob breathes.

“Number one:” he counts off on his fingers, “have you got any personal habits, quirks and/or opinions that I’m going to find especially irritating?”

Dob fights the urge to roll his eyes, “None that spring to mind.”

“Two: how much money do you make playing music?”

“Uh, a few gold pieces a night. Four, maybe five. I’ll have to steal a new lute first, though.”

Corazon’s poker face left an awful lot to be desired. He nodded away in a poor facsimile of nonchalance as he considered the number.

“Interesting, interesting…. and finally - you’re not friends with anyone in the city watch, are you?” He says warily.

Dob chuckles, this man was a selfish, dishonest, avaricious bastard down to his core and Dob couldn’t help but be completely fascinated by him. 

“No, this isn't a sting operation if that’s what you were wondering.”

“Can never be too sure.”

Corazon holds out his hand to Dob and their eyes meet in a gaze that is strong and hopeful. For the second time that day they shook hands, but this time it felt different, felt warmer. Like they were celebrating a beginning rather than welcoming an end.

“Pleasure meeting you, Dob.”

“You too, Corazon.”

And together they continued down the beach, towards a town with a tavern, a bar, and hopefully a bard who wasn’t paying too much attention to his immediate surroundings. Dob smiled to himself, just a little bit, watching the sun migrate across the sky above him and the waves wash rhythmically over the sand at his feet. He might have lost a lute, and a map, and probably a few years off his life expectancy, but he felt like he now had something infinitely more valuable. 

He was ending the day with his heart feeling just a little less empty than when he started it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, hope you enjoyed reading this story as much as I enjoyed writing it - a kudos/comment would make my day <3
> 
> I don't reckon I'm done with this ship just yet, I've got a few idea floating about for a more explicitly shippy fic, and if that's something you'd like to see then don't hesitate to let me know - my tumblr is @gemma-nye, feel free to slip into my DMs and yell about all things oxventure

**Author's Note:**

> I vehemently apologise for my egregious Pirates of the Caribbean references, but I feel like Andy would approve.  
> Any kudos/comments would make my day, hope you enjoyed <3


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